


Bad Patient

by vix_spes



Category: Rejseholdet | Unit One
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Post-Canon, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-04-23 09:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14329134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/pseuds/vix_spes
Summary: When Fischer fails to turn up at a crime scene, La Cour volunteers to investigate...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swingtime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swingtime/gifts).



> So, my lovely Swing gave me the prompt of one of the kids getting chickenpox and this fic was born...

“La Cour, crime scene. Fischer, interviews. Reports to Gaby and IP, the rest. Fischer, I need you to...?” Ingrid trailed off. “Where the hell is Fischer?” Ingrid was doing her best to hide her frustration, but it was still apparent, despite her efforts. “La Cour?” 

“What?” The lanky DI looked up from where he had already started perusing the case files. “I don't know where he is … he isn't answering his phone.”

“But aren't the two of you…”

“In a relationship?”

“Shagging?”

The two responses were spoken at the same time and La Cour arched an eyebrow at the crass - and rather uncharacteristic - way that Ingrid had spoken, perhaps a testament to her frustration.

“Yes, we're in a relationship but that doesn't mean we know where the other person is every single second. We're not joined at the hip.” La Cour ignored the scoffs of laughter coming from IP and Gaby's direction. “We don't live together, and we don't spend the night if one of us has the kids for the weekend. He was supposed to have Viktor this weekend, so I haven't seen him since we finished the case in Thisted”

La Cour’s words had the rest of the team pausing, exchanging somewhat incredulous looks before IP spoke, having been silently voted spokesperson by Ingrid and Gaby. “You're serious?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“But why? It's not for our benefit, is it?” IP gestured between himself, Ingrid and Gaby, “because however Ingrid phrased it, we don't have any problems with you and Fischer being together. We'd hope that you knew that without is saying anything.”

“It's for nobody's benefit but our own. Look, Fischer's still settling into being back in Denmark, we're both treading carefully with the ex-wives and we have the children to think about it. We don't want to mess anything up.”

“Be that as it may, I need Fischer here. Phone him now and tell him that he needs to get to Køge as quickly as possible.”

La Cour did as he was told, shaking his head as it went unanswered. “It’s just ringing out. Do you want me to drive back to Copenhagen? It’ll only take me 40 minutes, even if I don’t drive like Fischer, and I have a key to his flat.” He stood from his desk and reached for his car keys, already assuming what Ingrid’s answer would be.

“Yes, go. It’s not ideal but I need you all here. Just keep your phone on and actually answer it, unlike Fischer.”

La Cour nodded, his mind already miles away. He may have tried to be nonchalant when questioned but, the truth of the matter was, he was worried too. He had told the truth earlier; he and Fischer didn’t see each other when it was their weekend with either Viktor or Marie however, they always kept in contact with either texts or phone calls. La Cour had sent several messages over the course of the weekend, as he usually did, but none of them had been returned. While he had been a little worried, Marie had been staying with him for the weekend and so La Cour hadn’t been able to spend too much time worrying about his partner.

Now, despite his words to the contrary, La Cour took a leaf out of Fischer’s book as he sped all the way back to Copenhagen. He was tempted to put on the flashing blue lights but resisted, although he knew that if he were to be stopped, he would be embellishing the truth as to why he was speeding. As he drove, there was one call from Gaby, wanting to check something, and one from IP, asking for La Cour’s opinion on something he had found in the case files. When he wasn’t talking to them, La Cour was almost constantly phoning Fischer, swearing as each one simply rang out.

With each attempt that went unanswered, La Cour’s pulse went that little bit faster and his worry ratcheted a little higher. Fischer’s uncharacteristic silence was unnerving and, try as he might, La Cour couldn’t stop his brain from conjuring up increasingly worse reasons for Fischer to remain out of contact. When he arrived at Fischer’s unassuming flat, his parking could be described as haphazard at best as he pulled up and flung himself out of the vehicle, pulling the correct keys from his pocket as he did so.

La Cour didn't bother to knock - it was only Fischer and himself who had keys - and simply slipped the key into the lock and let himself in. What he saw concerned him. Fischer wasn't the best housekeeper and his flat was often in a state of disarray, but this seemed to be worse than usual. The toys that Viktor kept were scattered all over the floor and there were dishes piled up on the table. A quick glance into the kitchen confirmed La Cour's expectation that it looked like a bomb had hit it. More concerning was the fact that there was no sign of Fischer himself in all of the chaos.

“Fischer?” La Cour strained his ears and was rewarded by the sound of vague rustling and a quiet mumbling coming from the bedroom. Heart thundering in his chest, hoping that he wasn't going to walk into a Torben situation, he was at the bedroom door in three strides. “Fischer?”

A wave of relief washed over him, intermingled with frustration, when he saw Fischer lying in his bed. However, that faded to concern when he saw how Fischer was sweating and tossing around. Stepping over the piles of clothes on the floor, he swore as he rested the back of his hand against Fischer’s forehead and felt the temperature, fumbling his phone as he tried to get it out of his pocket quickly.

“Boysen? It’s La Cour. Are you in Copenhagen? I need you to come to this address as quickly as you can, it’s Fischer.”

Satisfied that Boysen was on his way, La Cour hung up and prepared to make a second call, one that he didn’t really want to make. He was on better terms with Fischer’s ex than Fischer was but, even so. Still, he needed answers so, taking a deep breath, he pulled up the number and hit dial.

“Mille? It’s Thomas.” La Cour had never been more grateful that he had a better relationship with Fischer’s ex-wife than Fischer himself. “Look, did you see Fischer this weekend? Ah, okay, your mother picked up Viktor. How is he?” La Cour rolled his eyes and forced himself to stay calm as a series of angry words echoed in his ear. “I wasn’t implying anything, Mille. You know as well as I do that Fischer adores Viktor and always does his best by him. Now, is Viktor sick?”

La Cour took a seat on the bed as he waited for Mille to answer, brushing his fingers over Fischer’s sweaty forehead and smoothing back damp strands of hair. A small smile played over his lips as Fischer stilled with a soft sound, almost nuzzling into La Cour’s hand. “Yes, Mille, I’m still here. Chickenpox? He has chickenpox? Okay, that helps, thank you.”

Hanging up the phone, La Cour went and dampened a washcloth, wringing it out and placing it on Fischer’s chest in an attempt to cool him down while he waited for Boysen to arrive. The man might be a pathologist now, but he would have had to do some medical training before he specialised and, if it were chickenpox - which La Cour suspected it was if Viktor had it - and Boysen couldn't diagnose it? Well, he was going down in La Cour's estimation.

The cool cloth seemed to be helping to calm down Fischer down, but it wasn't long before he was restless again. Luckily for La Cour, that was the moment that there was a banging on the door.

“La Cour? It's Boysen.”

“The door’s open. We're in the bedroom.”

La Cour heard the sound of the door opening and closing before the sound of grumbling and footsteps heralded the pathologist’s arrival.

“You'd better be decent in there. I don't need to see either of you naked. Ah, well, shit.” Boysen walked into the room, pulling off his coat and dumping his bag as he did so. “How long has he been like this?”

“I don't know. He hasn't been answering messages this weekend and then he didn't turn up for work this morning. He had Viktor and when I spoke to Mille a little while ago, she said that he's got chickenpox.”

“Seems like it could be the logical answer. You go and make us a coffee while I check him over. What’s the likelihood of him being vaccinated?”

“Non-existent. Fischer rarely talks about his childhood but from what I’ve managed to glean, they considered it good if they had a roof over their head and food on the table. Optional vaccinations were never going to be high on the list of priorities.”

“Okay. You make coffee and let me see what we’re dealing with here.”

Reluctant as he was, La Cour went through into the tiny kitchen to make coffee while he waited for Boysen to come up with his diagnosis. He had just poured two mugs full when Boysen joined him, grabbing a mug and taking a long swig before he leant back against the kitchen surface.

“Well, it’s definitely chickenpox. Have you had it? He’s going to be infectious for the next few days and then he’s going to be a very unhappy man.”

“Yes, I had it when I was about four and then my grandparents ensured that I had the vaccine. When you say miserable…”

“What do you remember of it? Adults have it worse than children. We’re looking at body aches, fever, fatigue, irritability – more than normal when it comes to Fischer – and a rash that could develop into itchy blisters which should last five to seven days.”

“So work is out of the question?”

“Absolutely. Definitely no work until the spots have crusted over. It usually takes about five days but may take longer given the fact that he’s an adult. I’ve given him some paracetamol and I’ll make a call, get you a script for anti-virals. Plenty of fluids, rest, and absolutely no scratching the spots.”

“Shit.”

“Problem?”

La Cour raked a hand through his hair and gave a weak chuckle. “You could say that. We’re supposed to be in Køge for a case. I’m only here because Fischer didn’t turn up and he wasn’t answering his phone. To be honest, I’m amazed that Ingrid hasn’t called yet demanding answers.”

“Ah, what is it? I’ve been summoned to that and I’m heading over there as soon as I leave here.”

“Mother and daughter have gone missing.” La Cour paused, clearly thinking about something. “If you’re heading to Køge…”

“Oh no,” Boysen shook his head. “I’m not telling Ingrid, I value my balls where they are. You can tell her that neither of you are going to be there.”

“I need to stay?”

“As if you were going to leave. But yes, you need to stay. Honestly? I’m concerned about the fever more than the actual spots. If it gets too high then he could hallucinate and if there’s no-one here to get him to hospital, well…. Besides, from what you said, it isn’t as if there’s anyone else so it’s either going to have to be you or someone else from the team.”

“She’s going to love that. Will you at least tell her that, in your opinion as a medical professional, Fischer needs someone to stay with him?”

“Now that, I can do. You phone Ingrid while I call in this script and we’ll get it sorted.”

As La Cour had expected, Ingrid was far from happy at not only having one member of her team down but hearing that a second was needed to look after them. Thankfully, Boysen was on hand to be the voice of reason and La Cour willingly handed the phone over, going in to sit with Fischer who had started tossing and turning again.

“Well, she’s not happy.” La Cour didn’t bother to turn around and look at Boysen. “However, she accepts that there’s not much she can do. She wants you to have a look at the crime scene, so Gaby is on her way. She’ll sit with Fischer until you get back and then you’re to be on call to look at files and answer questions until the case is solved. That was the best I could do, okay?”

“I appreciate it, Boysen.”

“Well, I can tell you right now, he’s probably going to be an appalling patient because it’s Fischer. Try and keep him cool and Gaby will bring the anti-virals with her. Good luck!”


	2. Chapter 2

La Cour couldn't help but be a little concerned at the news that it was Gaby who was going to be looking after Fischer, even if it was temporarily. Things had been a little strained between the two of them ever since Johnny had been shot by the bikers and Fischer had been shipped off to the Hague. Then again, she'd been frosty with him as well when she got back to work. That, La Cour would and could accept. He'd been the one who had dreamed up the whole operation, yet he hadn't been the one punished in any way. He almost welcomed Gaby's cold attitude - he deserved it - Fischer didn't.

He understood where she was coming from. It was totally shit that a man like Johnny, one who was so used to being active, had been left as he was. That he wasn't able to be the father to little Asta that he had envisioned. However, none of them had expected what had happened to happen and, if he was totally honest, there was a little part of La Cour that whispered that if Johnny hadn’t attempted to free himself, he wouldn’t have been shot. La Cour knew that was uncharitable of him but human nature wasn't always rational. He may have had to endure three years of separation but, in the end, at least Fischer was hale and hearty.

Just maybe not at this precise moment. 

Knowing that, if Ingrid had her way, she would have already dispatched Gaby, La Cour resolved to not leave Fischer’s side until she arrived. It was disconcerting to see Fischer like this. In all the years that they had known each other, La Cour didn't think he could remember an occasion when Fischer had been ill. Even when he had been beaten black and blue, complete with broken ribs courtesy of Jack, he had continued working, had comforted Gaby as she sat in hospital waiting for news of Johnny. So, to see him struck down by something as simple as chickenpox of all things was a little ridiculous.

Not wanting to leave Fischer, La Cour fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his phone, doing a quick search for chickenpox in adults and the likely symptoms that Fischer could expect. The results didn’t exactly fill him with joy. It was as Boysen had said but worse somehow. People wrote about the truly miserable time that they had and a significant number of them had had a sufficiently high enough fever to result in hallucinations. That concerned La Cour. What if Fischer's fever spiked and he hallucinated while Gaby watched over him? Fischer may have a temper but he wasn't physically violent to those he loved - unlike himself. Yet, lost to fever dreams and unaware of reality? There was no knowing what could ensue. If something were to happen, Fischer would never forgive himself. La Cour was just going to have to hope that the anti-virals Boysen had ordered kicked in quick and did their job.

Unable to do anything, and knowing that Gaby wouldn't be here for another hour, La Cour set about doing the only things he could; keeping Fischer as cool as possible through judicious application of wet cloths and doing his utmost to keep Fischer calm.

Easier said than done maybe, but he would endeavour nonetheless. 

~*~

As she pulled up at the building which housed Fischer's flat, Gaby couldn't help but feel a bit of trepidation. Ever since his return from The Hague several months ago, things had been awkward between herself and Fischer. They had both been wary, almost circling each other, and it hadn't escaped her notice that La Cour was essentially in mama bear mode, hovering protectively over his partner. He was going to be even worse now that Fischer was ill, especially as he was ill enough that Boysen had announced that he needed constant supervision.

Of course, it made sense for her to go, Gaby wasn’t disputing that. Not only had she had the vaccinations against chickenpox (as had Asta) but she was also the only one of the team who could really work anywhere. It wasn’t absolutely necessary for her to be in the mobile office. Besides, there was no doubt whatsoever in her mind that La Cour would spend the bare minimum of time at the crime scene to tell him what he needed to know before he hot-footed it back to Fischer’s side. Knowing that she couldn’t put this off forever, Gaby reached for the medication that she had stopped to collect at Boysen’s instruction, and headed for the door. The sooner she got there, the sooner La Cour returned.

She wasn’t completely certain of what she was expecting when she arrived - maybe the ultimate bachelor pad - but it certainly wasn’t. The door had been unlocked when she pushed it and, if she was asked, she had been expecting something minimalist - lots of empty beer bottles, not much furniture, that sort of thing. It certainly hadn’t been a room that had children’s toys and clothes spread out on every surface imaginable. While the kitchen showed a similar lack of empty bottles, it did look like a warzone with dirty plates and pans everywhere along with a number of empty takeaway boxes.

“La Cour?”

The man in question emerged from what she assumed to be the bedroom, his worry for Fischer clearly etched on his face. “Gaby. Have you got the pills?”

Gaby held out the box of anti-viral medication that she had collected at Boysen’s request and followed as he retreated back into the room. She couldn’t help but gasp as she caught sight of Fischer lying on the bed.

“You’ve had it before, haven’t you?”

“Hmm? Oh yes.” Gaby watched as La Cour forced the tablets down Fischer’s throat, coaxing him to swallow them. “I had it when I was little and Asta has had the vaccination already. Fischer hasn’t?”

“Apparently not. He wouldn’t have had the vaccination and it’s almost unheard of to catch it as an adult if you’ve had it as a child. I’ve spoken to Mille and Viktor has it - there’s been an outbreak at school - so Fischer must have caught it from him.”

“I don’t remember it being that bad though … I itched like crazy but that was it. Does he really need someone to stay with him?”

“According to Boysen, it’s much worse for adults than it is for children. Body aches, fever, fatigue, irritability and the rash has started to appear in the last hour or so. Boysen is worried that if the fever gets too high then Fischer will start hallucinating.”

Gaby blinked. Okay, she hadn't been expecting that. “What do you need me to do?”

“Keep him as cool as you can and get as many fluids down him as possible. I'll go look over the crime scene and be back here as soon as possible.” With those words, La Cour stooped and pressed a kiss to Fischer's forehead, combing fingers through his hair as he whispered something too low for Gaby to hear. It was so painfully intimate, something that they'd not really seen from the two men, that Gaby almost felt like she should turn away and give them some privacy.

Yet, at the same time, she couldn't pass up this opportunity to see a different side to the men that she'd worked alongside for so many years. As they had said just that morning in the mobile office, the two of them played things so close to the chest that, if it weren't for the frequent glances and occasional comment between them, you would be hard-pressed to know that they were more than colleagues. Gaby couldn't help but compare them to herself and Johnny; they had had no compunction about carrying on their relationship in front of all their colleagues, never feeling the need to hide the fact. She watched as La Cour reluctantly pulled himself away from Fischer, pausing to squeeze her shoulder.

“Any problems, just phone me. He's pretty out of it but, even so, I don't think he's going to be the best patient.”

“He can't be any worse than Johnny.” Both of them froze at Gaby's words before she forced a smile. “Go. The quicker you leave, the quicker you'll be back and the less angry Ingrid will be.”

Gaby couldn’t help but smile as La Cour disappeared in an instant. Knowing that there wouldn't be anything for her to work on to do with the case for a while, she checked that the cool cloths on Fischer's chest and forehead were still that and then proceeded to tidy up the flat, making it look less like a disaster zone and checking on Fischer every few minutes. With the exception of the kitchen, most of the things were Viktor’s; books, toys and the odd stray sock. A couple of times, she found the odd item that clearly belonged to La Cour, which made her smile. It wasn't long before she was done and seated at the side of the bed.

She fielded a couple of phone calls from IP and Ingrid, running a couple of searches at their request but, for the most part, Gaby just sat and watched over Fischer. Plenty of time for her to think. It was strange to see him so vulnerable. Fischer was always larger than life, it seemed like nothing could bring him down. So, to see him tossing and turning, mumbling mostly nonsense, clearly uncomfortable from chickenpox was hard to watch. Gaby couldn't help but soften, resolving to give him the same care that she would if it were her Asta who was ill. Yet, no matter how diligent she was at keeping him cool and how many fluids she managed to get down his throat, she was unable to soothe Fischer. Even harder to hear were the four words that she could make out amongst the rambling; Thomas, alone and don’t leave.

Remorse slammed into her like a brick wall and Gaby privately resolved that, when Fischer had recovered, she was going to make things up to him - and La Cour - no matter what she had to do.

She wasn’t remotely surprised when, just over two hours after he left, she heard the door to the flat open and hurried steps drawing closer to her.

“How has he been?” La Cour sounded out of breath as he made his way over to the bed and Gaby had no doubt that he had run up all three flights of stairs.

“He's restless. He's been tossing and turning, muttering your name a lot but his fever hasn't got any higher.”

“Small mercies. Thank you, Gaby. I gave Ingrid everything I could so they'll probably be needing you back at the office. You can contact me by phone or here but I won't be back until Fischer is.”

“Noted.” Gaby gathered her things and moved to allow La Cour to take her place. With both men out of action, she was going to have to get back to Køge as quickly as possible; they were going to need all hands on deck. Ulf might have even temporarily assigned someone to them if Ingrid had told him they were two men down.

As she got to the door, Gaby turned noticing that while La Cour wasn’t quite on the bed, he was as near as damn it, and that Fischer was the calmest that he had been since she had arrived. He still didn’t look comfortable, but he did look a little more at ease with La Cour close, fingers buried in Fischer’s hair. It had been a fleeting thought when she arrived, one that had played on her mind all day as she watched over Fischer and she felt compelled to speak up. Even so, her voice sounded small when she finally found it.

“I'm sorry. I've been a bitch. This hasn't been easy for me, but it hasn't been easy for any of us, especially you two.”

La Cour's reply was a long time in coming and, delivered in his usual measured tones, made her feel even more of a bitch.

“No-one will ever feel more guilt over what happened to Johnny than Allan and I. We blame ourselves for what happened, we always will. However, if you have to punish someone, then punish me. That operation was my brain-child. Allan suffered enough with the months in prison and the vitriol from people who were friends and colleagues then being exiled to the Hague, away from us, from Viktor, from everything he knew for three years thanks to Palsby and his manipulations. You want to blame someone, blame me. You want to hate someone, hate me. But not Allan.”

Tears filled Gaby's eyes and she had to choke back a sob. Crossing the room quickly, she dropped a kiss to Fischer's forehead before pressing a more lingering one to La Cour's cheek.

“Let me know if you need anything and look after him.”

“I always do.”

“I know.”


	3. Chapter 3

La Cour managed to spend a couple of hours working at Fischer's bedside. Ulf had grumbled but had agreed to send somebody to temporarily cover both Fischer and La Cour - he would forever deny it, but they all knew that deep down he was very fond of Fischer. All of them were, but La Cour had the feeling that Ulf was still trying to deal with lingering guilt for not standing up to Palsby when he had Fischer exiled to The Hague. He’d certainly been trying to make things as easy as possible for Fischer to assimilate back into life in Denmark. 

It hadn’t been easy. Not just for Fischer but for the rest of them as well. Three years was a long time apart and there had been more than a little dancing around before they had managed to find the correct rhythm to work together again. Even so, it still wasn’t perfect. Gaby was frosty with both Fischer and La Cour, but he had hopes for a detente after today. What had been surprising had been the underlying current of tension between Fischer and Ingrid, a tension that was distinctly one-sided with all of the aggravation coming from Ingrid. It had been somewhat reminiscent of the days when Ingrid had first taken over from Torben but with a role-reversal in that Ingrid was the aggressor rather than Fischer. It had puzzled La Cour for a while, because he knew how hard Ingrid had fought to get Fischer back from The Hague, before it finally clicked. 

Before everything had gone wrong, Ingrid had made it very obvious that she intended Fischer to be her successor at Rejseholdet. With Fischer's incarceration, he had been removed from the running and his standing and reputation amongst Rigspolitiet utterly destroyed. His reputation had been returned - somewhat - when the true facts of the case - and Fischer's time in prison - were made known but, even so, Palsby’s machinations had seen Fischer sent to Europol and that, La Cour suspected, was where Ingrid's issues lay.

Fischer may have been banished to Europol under not the best of circumstances but there was no doubting that he had acquitted himself well whilst he had been there. Indeed, he had excelled himself. He had gone from being one of the team to being the one to run the team. His operations were always well-planned and, whilst not everything always went to plan - this was Fischer after all - he always got results. By the time that Palsby was ready to let him come home to Copenhagen, Fischer was splitting his time between heading up and participating on task forces for both the European Serious Organised Crime Centre and the European Counter Terrorism Centre. The irony also hadn’t passed La Cour’s notice that what Fischer was being recognised for doing well was the exact same thing that he had been vilified for in Denmark.

This was the only thing that La Cour could think of that had caused the tension and aggravation coming from Ingrid. Whereas before, Fischer had been good but he had been just that little bit wild and too willing to go against the rules. He had been a future team lead of Rejseholdet, but it had always been an ‘in the future’, when he had calmed down a little. Now, he had the time and reputation at Europol to back up his previous good work in Rejseholdet and La Cour couldn’t help but wonder if Ingrid was feeling a little threatened.

He did another hour or so of work, trying to make connections between what they already knew and what he had sensed at the crime scene whilst fielding several phone calls from Ingrid querying various things and asking for various bits of information, her inquiries about Fischer being very much an afterthought. Still, he had no doubt that that would change when they had all slotted back into place and become used to working with each other again.

He was made incredibly aware, once more, of the difference between he and Fischer in their relationships with their ex’s when he phoned Helene to apprise her of the situation in between calls from the team.. While his conversation with Mille had been a wave of vitriol, immediately assuming the worst of Fischer, his phone call to Helene had been the exact opposite. La Cour had known that Marie had had all of her vaccinations and thus wouldn’t be at risk but he had wanted to inform Helene nonetheless. She had responded precisely as he had expected. Yes, Marie had had all of her vaccinations. No, he wasn’t imagining things. Yes, of course she would keep a watchful eye on Marie and let him know if anything changed. She hoped that Fischer got better soon. Whilst La Cour could readily acknowledge that he had made mistakes in their relationship - just as Helene had - and that he was with the person that he was meant to be with now, he couldn’t help but be grateful that Helene was the mother of his child.

And then, La Cour’s worst nightmare came to life.

He had left Fischer alone for maybe ten minutes, just long enough for La Cour to use the bathroom and make himself a coffee. The coffee had just finished brewing when he had had one of his premonitions. For the first time, it was one that involved someone he knew. And not just someone he knew, it was Fischer.

It was as though time stopped - along with his heart - as the images flashed in front of his eyes.

The mug of coffee fell from lax fingers, shattering on the floor and followed almost immediately by La Cour as his knees buckled. Shards of pottery dug into his knees and the fabric of his trousers was immediately soaked through with the steaming liquid but he paid no attention. He dragged himself to his feet and stumbled the few feet from the kitchen to the bedroom, clinging to the doorframe as he saw the image he had just seen as a vision play out in real life.

Despite the ever-vigilant ministrations of both La Cour and Gaby, it hadn’t been enough. Fischer’s temperature had risen too high and, even now, he convulsed in his bed as the infection ravaged his body. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This was why Boysen had prescribed the antivirals and why Gaby had brought them over; to prevent this from happening. It was chickenpox, for god’s sake. Given everything that Fischer had endured, had faced down during his career on the force, this was ridiculous. Something that should have so easily been prevented if his parents had given a damn and made sure he had the vaccination as a child. Not for the first time, La Cour cursed Fischer’s shitty parents; chickenpox was supposed to be scratchy spots that bothered you for a few days not convulsions and hallucinations.

La Cour didn’t know how he made to it to the bed but he did, managing to fumble his phone from his pocket and set it to speaker, calling the emergency services even as he tried to hold Fischer down and prevent him from hurting himself further. The episode had finished by the time that the phone call ended, La Cour reassured that the ambulance was already on its way. In truth, La Cour wasn’t sure what was more terrifying; seeing Fischer mid-seizure or in the aftermath, lying unnaturally still.

The time spent waiting for the ambulance was interminable even though, in reality, it couldn’t have been more than about ten minutes. The paramedics had just knocked on the door when, to La Cour’s horror, Fischer’s body was once again wracked with paroxyms. La Cour was torn; did he stay here to keep an eye on Fischer or did he go and let the paramedics into the flat? In the end, decision made, it still took three attempts for him to force the words out of his throat.

“Door’s open. We’re in the bedroom!”

He heard the door open and then he was being pushed gently but unceremoniously out of the way by the paramedics. His normally lightning-fast brain felt sluggish as he answered their questions. ‘Are you his partner?’ ‘How long has he been like this?’ ‘When did the rash appear?’ ‘Is he taking any medication?’ ‘Is he allergic to anything?’

He just about managed one word answers, four words was his absolute limit. Yes. Just over ten minutes. This morning. Some antivirals. No. All of La Cour’s attention was on Fischer as the paramedics injected him with something that stopped the seizure before fitting him with an oxygen mask and transferring him onto a gurney. He could hear one of them on the radio to the hospital, passing on all of the details so that they would be prepared; with it being chickenpox then they would inevitably have to keep Fischer quarantined so that he didn’t infect any of the other patients. He stumbled after the paramedics, just about remembering to lock the flat behind him, otherwise unable to tear his eyes away from Fischer’s prone form, half his face obscured by the oxygen mask.

The journey was a blur. There was no other way to describe it. Before he knew it, they were arriving at the hospital to find a team waiting for them and Fischer was whisked away into a cornered off, isolated section of intensive care. Feeling utterly helpless, stood in the corridor with doctors and nurses rushing around and nobody talking to him, La Cour did the only thing that he could think of and pulled out his phone once more, dialling the first number that came into his head.

“Gaby? It’s me. I’m at the hospital, it’s Fischer…” Anything else that La Cour was about to say was lost as a sob tore itself from his throat. He pulled himself together just long enough to answer Gaby’s question. “We’re at Bispebjerg, they’re trying to decide if they need to transfer him to Rigshospitalet.”

He paused as he listened to Gaby, the smallest amount of tension leaching from his body at her words. “Thank you, I appreciate it. I’ll see you soon.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a long chapter but a necessary interim one ... Fischer will actually be awake in the next chapter, I promise!

Gaby entered Rigshospitalet at a run, IP huffing and puffing behind her, searching for the familiar lanky figure of La Cour. They had been almost at Bispebjerg when they had received a phone call to say that Fischer was being transferred and to change their destination accordingly. That in itself was concerning enough because it meant that Fischer was in a serious enough condition that Bispebjerg wasn't equipped to take care of him. However, the thing that had Gaby and IP sharing a concerned look - and IP pressing down a little harder on the accelerator - was the disconnect in La Cour's voice. Gaby had never heard him sound like that before; so empty, so lost. Not even when he had been accused of murder, he hadn’t been like this. She knew that she had treated Fischer badly and, whilst she had apologised to La Cour, she hadn’t had the opportunity to do the same with Fischer. She just hoped that she had the opportunity to do so.

More than that, she couldn’t help but worry about La Cour should anything happen to Fischer. The two of them were a double act and it was rare to see one without the other. La Cour had been a bit like a shade for the last few years when Gaby had seen him, a pale shadow of himself without Fischer at his side. In the months since Fischer had returned from The Hague, he had been back to the La Cour that they knew and loved, albeit fussing like a mama bear over his lover. They still weren’t as demonstrative in their relationship as Gaby and Johnny had been but it was nice to see all the same.

There was no sign of him when they searched and Gaby had to find a nurse to ask. Finally, they were directed to a side room that was well out of the way of other rooms and clearly set up for quarantine. La Cour was stood by the observation window, staring almost blankly into the room. When they joined him, neither of them could hide their shock, Gaby gasping out loud. She had seen Fischer less than eight hours ago and thought he looked bad enough then but now, hooked up to a ventilator and IV drips, he looked even worse.

“How bad is it?”

“Not as bad as it was earlier. He didn’t have enough fluids - despite our best efforts - and his temperature rose high enough to send him into convulsions. They,” Gaby and IP exchanged horrified looks when La Cour’s voice broke, “they brought him here when he flatlined at Bispebjerg.”

Gaby couldn’t hold back the noise that escaped her throat. “But, but … he’s okay now, yes?”

“They’re hopeful but he’s still at risk. At the moment, they have the dehydration under control but they’re worried about the possibility of pneumonia later on.  I never realised that chickenpox could have so many potential problems; encephalitis, sepsis, toxic shock syndrome as well as joint and bone infections. They can’t say which of them he might suffer from, if any of them. He’s always seemed so unbreakable. I don’t know what scared me most, seeing him fitting or still as,” he swallowed heavily, “still as death.”

This time it was IP who intervened. “Come now, this is Fischer we’re talking about, Thomas. It may not look so good now, but you know that if anyone is going to come through something like this and be absolutely fine, it’s our Allan.” IP clasped La Cour’s shoulder and gave him a one-armed hug. “Now, how long have you been standing here? Go with Gaby and get a cup of coffee and something to eat.”

“No, no coffee.”

La Cour’s knee jerk reaction was almost violent and both Gaby and IP exchanged yet another concerned glance. What had happened? Coffee was the lifeblood of Rejseholdet, so for La Cour to refuse it meant something was up. Before they could question him, La Cour sagged and explained.

“I had one of my … episodes at the flat earlier. I was drinking a cup of coffee when I saw Fischer convulsing. When I went into the bedroom, it was playing out in real life. Even the thought of a cup of coffee makes me nauseous.”

“Then get a cup of tea or chocolate, anything. You’re not going to do Fischer any good if you don’t look after yourself and collapse.”

“But … Allan. I can’t leave him alone.”

“You’re not going to be leaving him alone. I’ll stay right here and if there is any change at all then I’ll let you know.”

“You’ll call as soon as anything changes? Immediately?”

“I promise. Now, go.” IP watched as Gaby towed away a reluctant La Cour before he turned back to looking through the observation window. It was just as disconcerting to see Fischer hooked up to all of the machines as it had been to hear the disconnect in La Cour’s voice earlier and how lost he had just appeared. None of them wanted to lose Fischer, especially not now that they had just got him back. More than that, IP was certain that it would utterly destroy La Cour.

“Now’s the time for you to fight, you stubborn bastard. Fight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to share the post on Tumblr, you can find it [here](https://vix-spes.tumblr.com/post/176171838235/bad-patient-chapter-2-vixspes-rejseholdet)


	5. Chapter 5

Of course, because this was Fischer, he decided to wake up in the middle of the night and was immediately disoriented. This wasn't his crappy standard-issue little Europol flat. Neither was it the less crappy flat that he shared with Viktor when Mille wasn't being a bitch or the familiar haven of La Cour's flat.

The electric lights made his eyes hurt and he squinted in an attempt to still be able to see without pain. It was then that he became aware of something in his nose only, when he went to touch it with his hand, his left arm simultaneously hurt like a bitch and felt like a dead weight. Everything was fuzzy and thinking felt as though he were fighting through a fog. There was also the most irritating persistent beep. Turning his head, he caught sight of the IV stuck in his arm and, just beyond it, his lanky body folded uncomfortably into a chair and covered in a blanket, a fast-asleep La Cour. Strange to see him in hospital scrubs rather than his usual sartorial choices.

“He’s been asleep for about an hour now. Finally. He hasn't left your side since they brought you in and that was three days ago.”

“Whe..” Fischer tried to speak but the sound that emerged was little more than a rasp.

The nurse hushed him and fed him a couple of spoonfuls of ice-chips. “Don't try to talk just yet. You're in Rigshospitalet and it's nearly two am. Try and get some more sleep and the doctors will talk to you in the morning.”

Despite not wanting to go back to sleep, despite the breathing cannula, the IV in his arm and the beep of the machines, he found himself drifting off nonetheless. The next time he woke up, it was to the murmuring of voices - one as familiar as his own - and the blissful relief of a mostly clear head. He opened his mouth to speak but it felt as dry as hell, as though he'd been on one hell of a bender the previous night. When he tried to speak, even though his lips made the necessary shapes, no sound emerged. Instead, he had to settle for clearing his throat. Which, in actuality, sounded as though he were hacking up a lung. It bloody hurt as well.

It got their attention though.

The two of them turned around and La Cour's face positively lit up. Fischer was pretty certain that he'd only ever seen that look twice before; when Marie had been born and when Fischer had returned from Europol. 

“Allan! You're awake!”

Fischer stared in bewilderment as La Cour strode over, grasped Fischer's face in his hands and kissed him hard on the lips before whirling around and disappearing out of the room so fast that his overcoat flapped behind him like a bloody great bat.

“La Cour! Thomas!” Despite Fischer’s calls, La Cour didn’t come back. And then there was the other issue, the one thing that Fischer had never seen his partner do. “Was … was he crying?”

The nurse looked sympathetic but before she could reply, another voice chimed in. One that Fischer was very familiar with but hadn't heard directed towards him much in the last few months.

“You've been very sick; he's been out of his mind with worry.” There was that little smile, the one that said she was nervous but trying to be brave. “Hello, Fischer.”

“Gaby.” His tone was cautious; he wasn't entirely sure what to expect after having been all but ignored since his return to Copenhagen.

Before either of them could say anything else, they were interrupted by a white-coated doctor. “Mr…”

“Detective Inspector.”

“Sorry, Detective Inspector Fischer. Nice to have you back with us; it was touch and go for a while. Nasty case of chickenpox you had.”

Fischer tuned out at that point. Chickenpox? Nasty? Clearly, they were all overreacting. Turning his head to look at his arm, he would admit that it looked bloody ugly with all of the crusted over spots but still. He'd had beer bottles smashed over his head and not bothered with hospital and he'd be fine. He was aware of the doctor talking - although it was more of an irritating buzz than anything else - but he wasn’t taking any of it in. Instead, he watched Gaby and kept an eye on the door for La Cour’s return. The doctor seemed to talk forever, with Fischer just making what he hoped were appropriate noises in the right places. Finally, he disappeared with the nurse in tow, but Fischer was almost sorry to see him go, because it left him alone with Gaby and neither of them knew what to say. It might sound petty but, considering Gaby had been the one to refuse to talk to him for three years, Fischer didn't really feel inclined to be the one to break the silence.

Luckily for him, Gaby had never been one to deal well with silence unless she was purposefully freezing someone out. It didn't take more than a couple of minutes before she was breaking like a dam.

“I’m sorry, Fischer. I’ve already apologised to La Cour, but I need to apologise to you as well. I’ve been a bitch and you didn’t deserve that; however angry I was. It wasn’t your fault. I know I can’t make up for it, but I want to try.” Running out of steam, Gaby stared hopefully at Fischer and visibly deflated when he didn’t reply. “I'll umm, I'll go and find La Cour.”

“No need, I'm back.” As his partner appeared behind Gaby, Fischer could see that he was a little red-eyed but had otherwise regained his composure.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” Gaby darted a look towards Fischer before speaking again to La Cour, “let me know if you need anything.”

And then she was gone, leaving the two of them alone for the first time since Fischer had woken up.

“You're staying? I'm not too ugly to look at with all this shit on my arms.”

“Trust me, the spots are the least of my worries after the last few days. Besides, I put up with that god-awful slicked back hairstyle of yours and I think that was worse than the spots.” La Cour came over and kissed Fischer gently, a wealth of emotion there that Fischer didn't feel up to running through his La Cour to human filter and sat back down at the bedside. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Hearing that, and just having La Cour close, eased a knot of tension in Fischer that he hadn’t been consciously aware of and, all of a sudden, he was blinking heavily and fighting exhaustion. He didn’t care that he was wearing a nasal cannula and still had an IV in his arm, all he cared was that La Cour was there and had said he wasn’t leaving. Flinging out a hand, he couldn’t hold back the little happy sound as it was grasped in a familiar grip.

“I shaved off that hairstyle for you,” was the last thing he managed to mumble as he lost his battle and his eyes drifted shut.

“I know. I just don’t know that the shaved head was an improvement. Sleep, Allan,” a kiss pressed to his knuckles, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”


	6. Chapter 6

“What the hell is he doing here?”

Ingrid’s sharp question made La Cour wonder, for the millionth time in the last two hours, if he had made the right decision in bringing Fischer with him to the mobile office. Not that he’d had many options. Having heard that he had been in a coma for three days and nonsensical for another day on top of that, Fischer had refused point blank to spend any more time in hospital. The doctors hadn’t been happy in the slightest, but had reluctantly agreed to his discharging himself on the condition that he do nothing but rest under supervision. Given that La Cour had been called into the mobile office, that rest wasn’t going to be ideal but needs must. La Cour had hoped that Ingrid would have been over her snit but, apparently having two of her team members missing for the better part of a week and a still unsolved case had ramped her temper up even more. What was worse was that she hadn’t even asked how Fischer was feeling. Her attitude got La Cour’s hackles up and there was a distinct edge to his voice as he replied.

“He’s here because you demanded that I be here and there was no one to look after him.”

“Does he really need looking after?”

“You may have missed it, Ingrid, but Fischer nearly died this week. He spent four days in hospital, three of those days on a ventilator unconscious. They only discharged him this morning. So, yes, he does need looking after.”

“Is he contagious?”

“ _He_ is standing right here, Ingrid.” Fischer’s voice was raspy but there was no doubting the anger in it. “And no, I’m not contagious; I just look like a walking plague. They wouldn’t have let me out if I was contagious. I won’t disturb anything or anyone; I’m just going to sit quietly in the corner.”

There was a sound that sounded distinctly like a snort from IP’s corner of the mobile office that went ignored in Ingrid and La Cour's staring battle. Eventually, Ingrid threw her hands up in the air with a somewhat martyred air.

“Fine! He can stay but, under no circumstances, is he to get in the way.”

To everyone's relief, Ingrid's phone rang before she could say anything else and she answered it, haranguing whoever the poor sod was on the other end of the line. IP took the opportunity to wander over, giving Fischer a gentler than normal clap on the back and a muttered, “thank fuck you're back” to La Cour.

“What's going on? Why's she so…”

“The investigation hasn't been going well, but you know that as you've been called in. It's been tough without the two of you and the replacement Ulf sent hasn't been up to scratch. Far from it. Plus, she's been worried about Fischer. Don't give me that look, La Cour. I know things have been strangely tense the last few months, but she has been worried, even if she hasn't shown it. Get him settled and then we can go over the case.”

Gaby arrived with coffee and pastries just as Fischer settled into the hammock, passing off her bounty to the three men before settling in to try and placate Ingrid. At some point, as they read through files and tossed various theories around, Fischer had clearly drifted off to sleep if the soft snuffles and mutters were anything to go by. Continuing to posit his theory, La Cour stood and moved over to the hammock, tucking his coat around Fischer and checking that his temperature was still where it should be before he returned to his seat and took the file back up.

They had been at it for several hours with no success when they heard a rustle and a rather shaky Fischer appeared next to La Cour, the man’s overcoat wrapped around him, almost like a comfort blanket.

“Let me see the file?”

“ _Fischer…”_

“I’m asking to look at the file, not go for a run around Køge. Let me see the file.”

La Cour hesitated but IP gave an impatient gesture and nodded, pushing Fischer down in his seat as La Cour handed over the file. There was nothing else for them to do but wait. Every single one of them was a good investigator but they all had their individual strengths and Fischer’s was that he could read people in a way that none of the others could.

He proceeded to do that.

Even recovering as he was, Fischer’s mind was as sharp as ever. He read the file through, asked several questions and then tapped the file, naming someone that had been dismissed by the temporary detective Ulf had sent before having a silent conversation with La Cour, all through eye contact before nodding. “You need to talk to her again. Ulf’s bloke should be demoted back down to desk duty if he missed that. I can guarantee she’s lying and knows more than she’s admitting to.”

At Ingrid’s nod, IP and La Cour disappeared to go and find the woman while Fischer allowed himself to be shepherded back to the hammock and, despite his best intentions, ended up drifting off, only waking when he was shaken awake by Gaby and handed a sandwich. She sat with him while he ate, awkwardly sharing bits of information about Johnny and Asta. There were a number of huge pauses as they both struggled for what to say but Fischer appreciated the effort. They had just finished eating when the door opened and La Cour and IP reappeared, with the woman that Fischer had identified in tow. In all honesty, Fischer wasn’t sure how long the questioning lasted for as, despite his best efforts, Fischer dozed off again, only waking when there was the sound of the interview room door slamming shut followed by a quiet curse.

“Case closed. Locals are on their way to pick mother and daughter up as well as take our perpetrator into custody. You can all go home once the paperwork is done.”

The team waited expectantly for Ingrid to acknowledge the fact that it had been Fischer, still ill, who had managed to solve the case when the others couldn’t. As the length of the silence ventured into the realms of painful, Ingrid finally broke.

“Thank you for your help, Fischer. I hope you’re back to 100% soon.”

“You and me both.” 

~*~

Despite the fact that he’d spent most of the day lounging in the hammock with Gaby juggling awkwardly trying to fuss over him as well as distracting an increasingly irate Ingrid, there was no denying that Fischer was exhausted by the time they arrived back at La Cour's flat.

He didn't talk much while they ate the takeaway they'd picked up on the way home and only took a couple of swallows of his beer, leaving it unfinished; something that was practically unheard of. Seeing how unsteady Fischer was on his feet, La Cour couldn't help but hover as Fischer went to shower in an attempt to get rid of that strange hospital smell, actually being swatted away when he tried to follow him into the bathroom. Nevertheless, La Cour remained outside, straining his ears to ensure that Fischer hasn't overestimated his strength and passed out.

Fischer held his tongue until they were in bed. At which point, La Cour fussing over the bed clothes and whether Fischer was too hot or cold and ‘you should really put some calamine lotion on the spots so they don't itch’ was too much. He growled as he gave La Cour's hand a far more decisive swat.

“Would you quit fussing? I'm not going to break, La Cour. It was chickenpox. Nothing more. I just want a good night's sleep.”

Fischer was unprepared for the speed - and care - with which he was flipped onto his back, La Cour looming over him, the intensity of his gaze sobering Fischer instantly. He'd seen that look many times over the years but there was something about it that was more important than before somehow.

“Just chickenpox? You don't get it, do you, Allan? You have no idea how seriously ill you were. Did you listen to the doctors at all? It may have been _just chickenpox,_ but you were ill enough that you had to be hospitalised.”

“Okay, so I didn't listen to the doctors. So what? I've never listened to doctors, you know that.”

“Then listen to me. I found you lying in bed with a fever, tossing and turning. I spoke to Mille and she said Viktor had it and Boysen confirmed it. We got you started on anti-virals within hours and were using cold cloths to try and keep your temperature down, but it didn’t work.” La Cour swallowed heavily. “I had one of my … moments. The first one I’ve had that has involved someone I … someone dear to me. I came through to the bedroom to find you in convulsions. It hadn’t a second time just as the ambulance arrived. They took you to Bispebjerg and you flatlined on the table. Twice. _You died, Allan._ They had to transfer you to Rigshospitalet. That's how serious this is. I get that it's chickenpox and it sounds ridiculous, but you had one of the most severe cases they had seen.”

Fischer was silent for a long time. When he finally did speak, it wasn’t exactly the response that La Cour had been hoping for. “Oh.”

“Oh? Is that all you have to say? Look, I get that neither of us is good at talking about feelings or even wanting to, and that might have worked in the past. Not now. Things have to be said. They brought you back on the table but there was no knowing what you could still have suffered; encephalitis, toxic shock syndrome, sepsis. I’ve only just got you back in the country after three years and I almost lost you again.” 

As quickly as he had rolled on top of Fischer, La Cour disappeared, rolling off to sit on the edge of the bed, one hand raking through his hair before he buried his head in his hands.

Fischer stared after him in bewilderment, the planes of that oh so familiar back radiating tension. Bewilderment and no little amount of guilt. It was unusual for La Cour to lash out like this. There was no doubting that he was a passionate man – they both were – but it was Fischer who had more of a problem controlling his temper. He would lash out whereas La Cour would keep it buried; still waters run deep and all that. However, that didn’t mean that he didn’t feel things deeply and for him to react like this showed just how serious this illness had been.

He was just going to have to suck it up and talk.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I didn’t realise how serious it was because it’s bloody chickenpox. I’m sorry that I worried you. I mean, chickenpox is scratchy spots not ventilators and hospitals. Although it got me out of work for a few days, I suppose.”

“This isn’t a joke, Fischer. Stop treating it like one.”

“I know it’s not a joke. I’m not joking. If it will make you feel better, then you can fuss all you want. I promise to be a good patient.”

The laugh that emerged from La Cour was slightly wet and strangled but he turned back towards Fischer, pressing a kiss to one patch of shoulder that had managed to escape spot free. “You’re incapable of being a good patient but I’ll hold you to that.”


	7. Chapter 7

Despite La Cour's statement that Fischer was incapable of being a good patient, Fischer was determined to prove him wrong and, as such, was doing his utmost to behave himself. Not least because there was a small niggling fear in the back of his head that, if he didn't, La Cour would leave him. He knew that, in all likelihood, his fears were totally unfounded and had been prompted by the way that La Cour had uncharacteristically lost his cool the previous evening as well as lingering issues stemming from his banishment to The Hague. But, even so, he was determined to submit to La Cour's fussing with good grace and as little complaining as possible.

It wasn't easy. Far from it.

The main problem was that Fischer wasn't used to being fussed over and, as a consequence, he simply didn't know how to accept it. Fischer didn't ever speak of his childhood and his formative years because they hadn't been great. There certainly hadn't been the relative privilege that the rest of the team had experienced growing up. That wasn't to say he had ever been abused. He'd never been knocked around or sexually abused, nothing like that. Maybe the odd smack but that was a standard form of discipline back then, not something he would use with Viktor now. So, no, he'd never been abused but maybe neglected was the right word.

His dad had been undeserving of the word. It had been his quick temper that Fischer inherited and he had had a tendency to drink away his paycheck when he had one and the money for the house when he didn't. It was up to Fischer's mum to keep them afloat and they tended to consider themselves lucky if there was a roof over their heads and food on the table. Anything else was a luxury and that included optional vaccinations and medicine if you were ill. There had been no fussing over Fischer when he was sick as a child; he either kept going and went to school or he stayed at home by himself. He had heard the other children talk about what happened when they were sick; parents taking time off work, comfort food, being swaddled in blankets on the sofa and read stories, an infinite number of hugs. Fischer received none of that and simply carried on regardless.

It had been a mindset that he had kept as he grew older. If he was ill then he just looked after himself and got on with it. After all, if he didn't look after himself then no-one else would.

As an adult, Fischer had rarely been ill. Even if he had been, it had never really been enough to keep him from work. In fact, he didn't think he'd ever had time off work so to be given a week's enforced leave didn't exactly fill him with joy. He was just grateful that La Cour had been given the same. Fischer also couldn't help but compare La Cour to Ida and Mille. It wasn't something that he did often, mostly because there simply was no comparison. His relationship with La Cour was healthier and happier than those with the two women had ever been. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if either of them would have reacted like La Cour if this had happened while he was still with either of them. He was inclined to say not. He couldn’t imagine Ida taking the time away from work voluntarily or Mille wanting to spend that amount of time with him, although that was mostly his fault.

La Cour, on the other hand, had dropped everything without complaint. In fact, he had been positively upset when Fischer had suggested that he didn’t have to stay at home to look after him. As far as La Cour was concerned, there was simply no question that Fischer would be left alone at any point and, if La Cour couldn’t be with him, then somebody else - usually IP or Gaby - would come and take his place.

It was eye-opening.

Fischer knew that La Cour had grown up with his grandparents and, if the way he was reacting was anything to go by, he had received the same treatment when he was sick as Fischer’s classmates. Fischer wasn't allowed to lift a finger and even if he so much as lifted a finger, he was questioned. Did he need to be moving? Could La Cour do whatever it was for him? There was an endless supply of drinks (although the ban on alcohol and coffee chafed) while every single meal was home-cooked with not a takeaway in sight, Trine, Gaby and even Ingrid's mother all contributing. Two things that Fischer quickly learnt was that daytime tv was shit and that he needed a bigger bathtub. Well, he actually needed a better apartment but he wanted to wait until his lease was nearly up and then broach the subject with La Cour about them moving in together. If they did, they definitely a big tub; shared baths were fun but it wasn't easy to fit when you were both over six foot and La Cour always felt like he took up more space with his lanky frame.

Two other takeaways were the fact that calamine lotion smelt awful and felt slimy as well as making him look absolutely ridiculous but it did go a long way to soothing the itching weals that had lingered. What went a long way to soothing an unhappy Fischer were the hugs. How had he never realised how wonderful they were? In truth, he knew. He and Mille had never really spent enough time in the same vicinity as each other while his relationship with Ida had been mostly about sex. His relationship with La Cour wasn’t really in its infancy in length although it was in terms of proximity. They had taken a step further than the already existing friendship while Fischer had been at The Hague and the few early months of their relationship had all been carried out through the medium of emails, phone calls, Skype calls, text and even a few good old-fashioned letters. None of which had made hugs feasible so their discovery was a welcome reprieve from his recovery for Fischer.

And then there had been the elephant in the room. La Cour’s reaction to Fischer’s overly blasé response to his illness. They had tiptoed around it until, finally, they had been pushed into it by an exasperated IP. As soon as they had had their conversation, it was like a tension that they hadn’t been aware of disappeared. It had been painful, neither of them liking to talk about their feelings, but it had been necessary. The fact that they had managed to talk at all - and got out at the end with them both alive and their relationship intact - was proof that Fischer was, finally, in an adult relationship for the first time in his life. One that he was willing to fight for to ensure that it continued.

~*~

“So, have I been a bad patient?” 

They were slumped on the couch, La Cour half-reading an article while Fischer watched the football on tv in a desultory fashion, stealing sips of La Cour’s beer as he did so. He was still on the last doses of antibiotics so, officially, he wasn't supposed to be drinking alcohol but they'd decided that a few mouthfuls wouldn't hurt. The last of the spots had disappeared the previous morning and, having spoken to Ingrid, both Fischer and La Cour would be returning to work the following morning, much to the relief of both of them.

“Actually, you've been far better than I anticipated. Not the best behaved but far from the worst.”

“Room for improvement next time then.” Fischer had meant the words in a teasing fashion but, not even a second after they left his lips, he felt La Cour stiffen beneath him. And not in the fun way.

“No, absolutely not. There isn't going to be a next time. You're not allowed to get ill ever again, I'm not going through this again.”

Fischer craned his neck to press an apologetic and conciliatory kiss to the underside of La Cour's jaw. He could feel the minute tremors that wracked Thomas’ body, simply at the thought of Fischer being ill again and felt guilty at his careless words. He had been doing his best to be more considerate after La Cour's outburst and trying to think how he'd have reacted if their roles had been reversed (probably cursing up a storm, smoking far too much, drinking too much and punching things) but, inevitably, he fell back to his default position which was just to make light of everything.

“Okay, no next time. Nothing more serious than hangovers and the occasional black eye.”

Fischer gave an internal sigh of relief when he felt La Cour incrementally start to relax. In truth, to no surprise whatsoever, he didn't want to be this ill again because it was painful and boring and he hated it. What had been nice was the time spent with La Cour. Just the two of them, no-one else and with nothing to do but spend time with each other. And quality time, none of this just existing in each other's orbits but not really interacting. 

The one thing that he was definitely not giving up were the cuddles. He would deny it to his last breath but he'd never realised just how amazing hugs and cuddles were. It had never really been a priority; that had been sex. Sex was great, no question about it, but there was something about hugs, the warmth and the comfort of being that close to your partner that couldn't be replicated any other way. Doing nothing but being wrapped up in each other's embrace.

Yeah, chickenpox was the worst. But being a patient, even a kind of bad one, wasn’t too bad. At least, not if you had a La Cour.


End file.
